So one day, after having lunched too freely, he sat down and wrote Plank the following note:
My Dear Beverly: You will remember that I once promised you my aid in securing what, to you, is the dearest object of your existence. I have thought, I have pondered, I have given the matter deep and, I may add without irreverence, prayerful consideration, knowing that the life"s happiness of my closest friend depended on my judgment and wisdom and intelligence to secure for him the opportunity to crown his life"s work by the acquisition of the brightest jewel in the diadem of old Manhattan.
"By George! that"s wickedly good, though!" chuckled Mortimer, refreshing himself with his old stand-by, an apple, quartered, and soaked in very old port. So he sopped his apple and swallowed it, and picked up his pen again, chary of overdoing it.
All I say to you is, be ready! The time is close at hand when you may boldly make your avowal. But be ready! All depends upon the psychological moment. An instant too soon, an instant too late, and you are lost. And she is lost forever. Remember! Be faithful; trust in me, and wait. And the instant I say, "Speak!" pour out your soul, my dear friend, and be certain you are not pouring it out in vain. L. M.
Writing about "pouring out" made him thirsty, so he fortified himself several times, and then, sealing the letter, went out to a letter-box and stood looking at it.
"If I mail it I"m in for it," he muttered. After a while he put the letter in his pocket and walked on.
"It really doesn"t commit me to anything," he reflected at last, halting before another letter-box. And as he stood there, hesitating, he glanced up and saw Quarrier entering the Lenox Club. The next moment he flung up the metal box lid, dropped in his letter, and followed Quarrier into the club.
Then events tumbled forward almost without a push from him. Quarrier was alone in a window corner, drinking vichy and milk and glancing over the afternoon papers. He saw Mortimer, and invited him to join him; and Mortimer, being thirsty, took champagne.
"I"ve been trying a new coach," said Quarrier, in his colourless and rather agreeable voice; and he went on leisurely explaining the points of the new mail-coach which had been built in Paris after plans of his own, while Mortimer gulped gla.s.s after gla.s.s of chilled wine, which seemed only to make him thirstier. Meantime he listened, really interested, except that his fleshy head was too full of alcohol and his own project to contain additional statistics concerning coaching.
Besides, Quarrier, who had never been over-cordial to him, was more so now--enough for Mortimer to venture on a few tentative suggestions of a financial nature; and though, as usual, Quarrier was not responsive, he did not, as usual, get up and go away.
A vague hope stirred Mortimer that it might not be beyond his persuasive tongue to make this chilly, reticent young man into a friend some day--a helpful friend. For Mortimer all his life had trusted to his tongue; and though poorly enough repaid, the few lingual victories remained in his memory, along with an inexhaustible vanity and hope; while his countless defeats and the many occasions on which his tongue had played him false were all forgotten. Besides, he had been drinking more heavily all day than was his custom.
So Quarrier talked, sparingly, about his new coach, about Billy Fleetwood"s renowned string of hunters, about Ashley Spencer"s new stable and his chances at Saratoga with Roy-a-neh, for which he had paid a fabulous sum--the sum and the story probably equally fabulous.
Mortimer"s head was swimming with ideas; he was also talking a great deal, much more than he had intended; he was saying things he had not exactly intended to say, either, in just that way. He realised it, but he went on, unable to stop his own tongue, the noise of which intoxicated him.
Once or twice he thought Quarrier looked at him rather strangely; but he would show Quarrier that he was n.o.body"s fool; he"d show Quarrier that he was a friend, a good, staunch friend; and that Quarrier had long, long undervalued him. Waves of sentiment spread through and through him; his affection for Quarrier dampened his eyes; and still he blabbed on and on, gazing with br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes upon Quarrier, who sat back silent and attentive as Mortimer circled and blundered nearer and nearer to the crucial point of his destination.
Midway in one of his linguistic ellipses Quarrier leaned forward and caught his arm in a grip of steel. Another man had entered the room.
Mortimer, made partly conscious by the pain of Quarrier"s vise-like grip, was sober enough to recognise the impropriety of his continuing aloud the veiled story he had been constructing with what he supposed to be a cunning as matchless as it was impenetrable.
Later he found himself upstairs in a private card-room, facing Quarrier across a table, and still talking and quenching his increasing thirst.
He knew now what he was telling Quarrier; he was unveiling the parable; he was stripping metaphor from a carefully precise story. He used Siward"s name presently; presently he used Sylvia"s name. A moment later--or was it an hour?--Quarrier stopped him, coldly, without a trace of pa.s.sion, demanding corroborative detail. And Mortimer gave it, wagging his head and one fat forefinger as emphasis.
"You saw that?" repeated Quarrier, deadly white of a sudden.
"Yes; an" I--"
"At three in the morning?"
"Yes; an" I want--"
"You saw him enter her room?"
"Yes; an" I wan" tersay thish to you, because I"m your fr"en". Don" wan"
anny fr"en"s mine get fooled on women! See? Thash how I feel. I respec"
the sect! See! Women, lovely women! See? Respec" sect! Gimme y"han", buzzer--er--brother Quar"er! Your m" fr"en"; I"m your fr"en". I know how it is. Gotter wife m"own. Rotten one. Stingy! Takes money outter m"
pockets. Dam "stravagant. Ruin me!
Say, old boy, what about dividend due "morrow on Orange County Eclectic--mean Erlextic--no!--mean "Letric!
d.a.m.n!--Wa.s.ser ma.s.ser tongue?"
Opening his fond and foggy eyes, and finding himself alone in the card-room, he began to cry; and a little later, attempting to push the electric b.u.t.ton, he fell over a lounge and lay there, his shirt-front soiled with wine, one fat leg trailing to the floor; not the ideal position for slumber, perhaps, but what difference do att.i.tudes and postures and poses make when a gentleman, in the sacred seclusion of his own club, is wooing the drowsy G.o.ddess with blasts of votive music through his empurpled nose?
In the meantime, however, he was due to dine at the Belwether house; and when eight o"clock approached, and he had not returned to dress, Leila called up Sylvia Landis on the telephone:
"My dear, Leroy hasn"t returned, and I suppose he"s forgotten about the Bridge. I can bring Mr. Plank, if you like."
"Very well," said Sylvia, adding, "if Mr. Plank is there, may I speak to him a moment?"
So Leila rose, setting the receiver on the desk, and Plank came in from the library and settled himself heavily in the chair:
"Did you wish to speak to me, Miss Landis?"
"Is that you, Mr. Plank? Yes; will you dine with us at eight? Bridge afterward, if you don"t mind."
"Thank you."
"And, Mr. Plank, you had a note from me this morning?"
"Yes."
"Please disregard it."
"If you wish."
"I do. It is not worth while." And as Plank made no comment, "I have no further interest in the matter. Do you understand?"
"No," said Plank doggedly.
"I have nothing more to say. I am sorry. We dine at eight," concluded Sylvia hurriedly.
Plank hung up the receiver and sat eyeing it for a while in silence.
Then his jaw began to harden and his under lip protruded, and he folded his great hands, resting them in front of him on the edge of the desk, brooding there, with eyes narrowing like a sleepy giant at prayer.
When Leila entered, in her evening wraps, she found him there, so immersed in reverie that he failed to hear her; and she stood a moment at the doorway, smiling to herself, thinking how pleasant it was to come down ready for the evening and find him there, as though he belonged where he sat, and was part of the familiar environment.
Recently she had grown younger in a smooth-skinned, full-lipped way--so much younger that it was spoken of. Something girlish in figure, in spontaneity, in the hesitation of her smile, in the lack of that hard, brilliant confidence which once characterised her, had developed; as though she were beginning her debut again, reverting to a softness and charm prematurely checked. Truly, her youth"s discoloured blossom, forced by the pale phantom of false spring, was refolding to a bud once more; and the harsher tints of the inclement years were fading.
"Beverly," she said, "I am ready."
Plank stood up, dazed from his reverie, and walked toward her. His white tie had become disarranged; she raised her hands, halting him, and pulled it into shape for him, consciously innocent of the intimacy.
"Thank you," he said. "Do you know how pretty you are this evening?"
"Yes; I was very happy at my mirror. Do you know, the withered years seem to be dropping from me like leaves from an autumn sapling. And I feel young enough to say so poetically.
Did Sylvia try to flirt with you over the wire?"
"Yes, as usual," he said drily, descending the stairs beside her.
"And really you don"t love her any more?" she queried.